


Ravished

by Whisky (whiskyrunner)



Category: Dark Knight Rises (2012)
Genre: M/M, Rape Roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-29
Updated: 2013-04-29
Packaged: 2017-12-09 22:28:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/778694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskyrunner/pseuds/Whisky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John comes home late to find the masked terror of Gotham in his apartment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ravished

“You're home late.”

The voice almost scares the crap out of John. He enters his apartment warily, flips on the lightswitch, and finds the masked terror of Gotham sitting in an armchair in his living room.

Bane. He looks about as at home in John's living room as a giraffe might. For a minute John just stares. Bane stares back.

“What are you doing here?” John says finally.

Bane rises to his feet in one fluid motion. He tilts his head, studying John. “You look very nice tonight ... Nightwing.”

There's a moment when John doesn't get it, not right away. And then he does get it.

He can feel his body react right away, muscles turning tight and tense in anticipation.

“What are you doing here?” he demands a second time, hands curling into fists.

“I've been watching you,” Bane says, in a voice so deep it comes from his chest. “I want you. Now.”

A beat. Then John bolts for the door.

Bane catches him up in the doorway to the kitchen, crushing John to him, wrapping a huge hand around John's jaw and wrenching his head back.

“Ah-ah,” he scolds lightly. John fights him, and Bane simply turns and presses him into the wall until John actually hears his ribs creak. “If you do that again,” Bane says, his voice dropping deep again so that John can feel the vibrations through his back, “I will hurt you.”

He squeezes John's jaw to make his point. Then he releases John. John's hand flies up to his jaw, rubbing shakily, while Bane walks to the front door and throws the deadbolt home.

They face each other. Bane is huge, filling up the hallway in John's apartment. He moves forward, and John automatically moves back, stumbling away from him. Bane's every movement is calm and sure; he looms over John more and more with every step. John's legs feel unusually watery: when the backs of his thighs hit the side of the armchair, he falls into the seat, breath rushing out of his lungs.

Bane leans over him, examining him closely.

“I like this,” he says, fingering John's tie. John almost never dresses up—he's been at a police benefit all night, only really there to support Gordon, and he regrets all the wine he drank now. His head is buzzing. With one quick, deft movement, Bane unknots the tie and yanks it from John's collar. “Turn over.”

John scrambles up out of the chair. At once Bane's hand is at the back of his collar. He gives John a hard shake, as if he's a naughty puppy, and then hurls him to the ground. He drops onto John, digging a knee into his back, and John fights him, snarling.

“Fuck you—get off me—”

Bane crushes the breath out of him, so that the next sound to escape John is little more than a squeak.

“Should I gag you, little one?” He loops the tie around John's face briefly. Then he pulls it away. “Or ...”

John knows what's coming next. He fights it, thrashing so hard he almost dislocates his shoulder, but Bane's got him. One hand is pinned to his back, then the other, and Bane traps both easily in one of his hands, using the other to tie John's. The silk tie rasps smoothly against John's wrists, then tightens.

_I can't breathe_ , John wants to say, but he can't.

The knee eases off of John's back, and words start spilling out of him.

“Don't do this. Just leave, I won't tell anyone you're alive, I'm not even who you really want—”

“I will leave, if that is what you want.”

John stops squirming for a moment and gulps, “Really?”

“Yes. I will find another victim. Perhaps a neighbour. It needn't be you tonight.”

John doesn't say anything.

“No?” Bane waits for an answer. Getting none, he pulls John to his feet. “No. Come, then.”

He swivels John around, slams him onto the table. The edge of it hits John in the diaphragm and he wheezes, choking, for a minute. Bane's hand slides around to his stomach, petting; then he yanks John's shirt out of his pants and begins to unbutton it with surprising dexterity. When this takes too long, he forces John to lift off the table by yanking his hair, then rips the shirt open with a muffled snarl. Buttons scatter.

John is still fighting—hasn't stopped, really. It's just that nothing makes any impression on the indomitable wall of flesh and muscle behind him. With his hands tied, there's very little he can do anyway. Bane shoves him back down and splays his fingers over John's belly, and finally John shudders still, trying only to arch away from this touch.

“You are exactly who I want, John Blake,” Bane rumbles in his ear. He's pressed to John's back, smothering him with heat. “I have wanted you for a very long time. You will look beautiful spread out underneath me.”

“Jesus,” John gasps out softly when Bane rocks his hips, every so gently, but deliberately, to bring the searing press of his cock to the back of John's leg. He stands on tiptoe trying to get himself away. Bane's hand rubs John's stomach in a slow, petting circle; then it travels lower, fingertips just brushing under the waist of John's pants, and John drops onto his heels again, stomach swooping.

Bane's other hand encircles his throat with a warning squeeze.

“Do not fight me,” he growls.

“I can't do this,” John wheezes. “You can't—”

“Red,” says Bane.

The word is incongruous, out of place here. John straightens and turns, and Bane's hands slide away from him.

John flicks his head, dislodging a strand of hair from his eyes, and says, “You okay?”

“You said you can't do this,” says Bane.

John huffs, biting back his impatience.

“That's part of the game, Bane,” he says. “Like when I say 'no' and 'stop', it doesn't mean stop for real. That's what _red_ is for. Okay?”

“I'm hurting you.”

John sighs. He can't just tell Bane to get on with it, though, not when Bane is looking so puzzled and unsure.

He steps closer and rocks onto tiptoe. Bane obediently clasps his cheek and leans down to press his forehead to John's. His breath wheezes out of the mask and into John's face, light and cool.

“I want you to hurt me,” John says gently.

“I still don't understand.”

“Bane.” With his hands tied, John has to press right up against him, and he knows when Bane can feel the hard, insistent line of John's cock, aching in his pants. Bane's eyes widen slightly and he moves his head back. John meets his gaze squarely. “Okay?”

Bane thumbs his lower lip. John presses a kiss to the pad of his thumb, then offers him a quick, reassuring smile.

“Okay,” John repeats, meaning, _I'm okay. Everything is okay._

“You will use the safeword if you start to dislike it?” It's half a statement, half a question.

“Yes,” John says firmly. “This is about you making me feel good. Remember? You're making me feel good. If it doesn't feel good anymore, I'll stop you. So don't feel guilty.”

For a second, Bane presses the cold metal grate of the mask, where his mouth is, to John's forehead. It's an unfamiliar gesture, not unlike a kiss. Then he moves back again.

“Okay,” he echoes.

He shoves John back down, face-down and bent over the table, and in spite of the interruption, it's easy to feel a cold thrill of adrenaline when Bane's hand is back at his belly, shoving down into his pants. John heaves against him, actually managing to push Bane back a step. Then Bane's other hand is at the back of John's neck, slamming him down and pinning him there.

He's making shushing noises that sound like static through the mask, and John realizes he's already gasping for breath again. It's so easy to slip into this fantasy, because the brute strength in the tips of Bane's fingers is such a real threat. Bane shoves his hand lower, cupping John's balls through his boxers, and John is on tiptoe, quivering, straining away from this intrusive touch.

“Here is what I want,” Bane says in John's ear, voice a soft hiss. “I will take you to your bedroom and strip you of every stitch of clothing. When you are bare, you will get to your knees and use your mouth to pleasure me. Then, when I am ready, I will bend you over your bed and take you.”

John's only reply is a broken, muffled “Oh, God.”

Bane's hand leaves his pants. He spins John around and picks him up easily, slinging John over his shoulder. John's own shoulders scream in protest, his arms sticking out awkwardly behind him, and he kicks. Bane wraps an arm around his legs and carries him to the bedroom, where he dumps John to the floor. He hunkers down in front of John, who is groaning in pain, dizzy.

“This will have to go,” Bane says, touching John's dress pants musingly. He unfastens them. John kicks away from him, scooting backward toward the bed.

“Fuck you, get your hands off—”

In one smooth motion, Bane grabs the waistband of John's boxers and pants together and yanks them off, so forcefully that John is dragged several inches toward him. He can feel a carpet burn sear into his lower back. Bane wrests his shoes and socks off, one by one, then tugs John's pants off the rest of the way. John is left sprawled out on the floor, his chest heaving, bare below the waist, his jacket and dress shirt falling open. Bane pats his chest.

“Perhaps I will leave you like this. Like a present, still to be unwrapped.”

He stands up and drags John with him with a hand in his hair. He unfastens his own pants quickly, takes out his half-hard cock and strokes it several times.

“Suck.”

“Fuck you,” John pants, glaring up at him. “Nothing could make me—”

“Nothing?” Bane echoes.

John shuts his mouth. Bane's gaze is penetrating, seeking.

“I could take you without any preparation,” he says, “sink in and tear your soft flesh. Or I could leave you here, like this, and find somebody else to satisfy me. The choice is yours to make.”

John glares at him a few seconds longer. Then he lowers his eyes to Bane's cock. He shuffles forward on his knees, leans in uncomfortably, rests his head against Bane's clothed thigh before tilting his head to lap at the cock next to his face.

Bane's fingers slide through his hair and grip, wrenching John's head where he wants him. “I said suck, Blake.”

He forces John onto his cock. John has barely a second to breathe before his mouth is on it, teeth hastily tucked away. He bobs his head awkwardly, and then Bane _thrusts_ , gagging him. John breathes hard through his nose, anticipates the next thrust, and takes it. Bane makes a pleased, purring sound above him, his cock twitching and filling in John's mouth. His grip on John's hair feels like iron, but he soon lets go and pets the back of John's head, holds him in place while he fucks John's face. John gags and chokes on him, tears prickling his eyes. But he doesn't try to speak. He doesn't want Bane to stop.

At last, Bane does stop, sliding his cock past John's lips. A little thread of precome and saliva connects them for a second before it breaks. He takes John's collar and pulls him to his feet.

“That was very good, Blake,” he says, pushing John so that he's bent over the foot of the bed. He kicks John's legs apart, shoving a knee between his thighs when John tries to move. “I have been watching you for such a long time. Watching and wanting ...”

His thumb pries John's cheeks apart, finds its way to John's hole, and John clamps his eyes shut, a hot flush stealing over his entire body. He's not faking the trembles that wrack him. Bane pets, apparently enjoying the clench of John's hole against his thumb.

“Stop,” John forces out.

Bane leans over him, a suffocating weight on John's back. “If you are as sweet as I think you will be, this will be over quickly, John.”

He moves away for a moment. His thumb returns with slick on it, so that he can push into John's hole; push and crook and knead, until John is positively mewling, burying his face in the bedcovers. Bane is making soft growling sounds of pleasure behind him; and then his hand is at the back of John's neck again, pressing him down; and his thumb is gone, and he's guiding the head of his cock to John's entrance.

No condom, John realizes as Bane is sinking his bare cock into John's ass. He shakes, unprepared for it. Bane's thumb is not big enough to make way for his cock. It's huge, splitting John apart. He won't get in all the way; John's too tight. And then he does, in one sudden rush, and John is gasping into the sheets, light-headed.

“Oh God,” he breathes. “I can't.”

“But you can. Look how well you're doing.”

He wraps both hands around John's hips and pulls him back the last inch, impaling John completely. John squirms, a strangled almost-scream wrenched out of his throat without his brain's permission. Then he falls limp again, gasping, because moving makes the burn at the base of his spine that much worse.

“Good,” Bane hisses out, running one hand slowly down John's spine.

That's all the time he gives John to adjust. He starts fucking, snapping his hips, and John writhes, shouting weakly. He can feel Bane moving in him, huge, relentless, carving a rough channel for himself in John's insides. He snarls aloud, grabbing at John's hips again and holding him down. John's pinned hands clutch at nothing; his toes curl. He can see stars.

“Please,” he hears himself mumbling into the bed, over and over. “Please, please, Christ ...”

With a growl, Bane lifts him and tosses him onto the bed without even pulling out. He follows John, pulling him onto his lap and spreading his legs apart with both hands, and starts fucking in earnest. John moans, eyes stinging, and Bane's hands come back up to his hips and clench reflexively. He yanks John back onto him every time he thrusts in, so that no part of his naked cock isn't sheathed in John's body.

He's close to coming, he has to be. The thought makes John try to buck, to gain any leeway he can, but it's impossible. He has no strength left. And Bane is only getting stronger, not holding back anymore. He fucks deeper, harder; his hands are a brand around John's hips. More static sounds are emitting from the mask, pneumatic hisses and wheezes. He has to be close. Summoning up his last shred of power, John braces his knees in the mattress and tries to roll his hips back into Bane, clenching helplessly around him, whining when Bane's pace stutters.

That sound seems to be what does it. Bane flattens him on the bed and comes with a muffled roar, fucking through it, cramming his seed deep into John's body on every thrust.

Finally, he falls still. John just lies there, spitted on his softening cock. He feels like he's just ridden a hurricane and survived. When Bane pulls out, John's voice cracks on another moan. He's been used up and hollowed out; now he feels empty. Fluid trickles out of his hole.

Bane leaves the bed. John hears the clink of him doing up his trousers.

“Well done, Blake,” Bane murmurs.

John draws his legs up under him. Curls into a ball. From the silence, he can guess that Bane is just standing there, watching him for a minute.

At last, Bane leaves. The door clicks shut.

John's breath slowly escapes his lungs. It takes him about twelve seconds to work his hands out of the tie, longer than it should because he's trembling; and then, finally, he can throw off the rest of his clothes and touch himself. He's so hard that he only has to skate a hand up and down his cock a few times before he's coming harder than he has in years, maybe ever; his eyes roll up and stars explode behind his lids. His whole body thrums like a finely-tuned guitar string.

By the time Bane returns, John is still flushed, sweating, shivering, coming down from his high. Bane scoops him up gently, without a word, and carries John to the bathroom, where he's drawn a warm bath. John sighs softly as he's lowered into the water. Bane soaps a washcloth and begins to bathe him.

The silence is nice. John's head starts to clear a little, though his skin is still buzzing. He's still awash in endorphins. The cloth feels good on his burning skin.

“Did you like it?” Bane asks hesitantly at last, as if afraid of the answer. It seems like answering would require more energy than John has right now, but he forces himself to rally, for Bane's sake.

“I did. I really did,” he says hoarsely, catching Bane's hand and squeezing. “Did you?”

Bane hesitates. “I liked that you liked it,” he says finally.

John smiles. “We don't have to do it again.”

“I don't like hurting you,” Bane says, after another pause.

John holds onto his hand. They had this conversation a dozen times beforehand, but he says it one more time anyway. “I've never done this with anyone else, you know that? I picked you because I trust you. I trust you to hurt me, I trust you to make me feel better than anyone else ever could. I trust you to stop if I safeword out.”

“I enjoyed it,” Bane admits. He strokes a hand through John's disheveled hair. “I enjoyed seeing you in such a state.”

“Next time you can tie me to the bed,” John says drowsily.

“Yes.” Bane pets him again. “Next time,” and the thought of there being a next time carries John into a blissful sleep.


End file.
